What About Me?: The Struggle for Identity in a Market-Based Society

by Paul Verhaeghe

  Scribe Publications

  WHAT ABOUT ME?

  Paul Verhaeghe is professor of psychoanalysis at the University of Ghent in Belgium, and is also in private practice. He is the author of Love in a Time of Loneliness and Does the Woman Exist?

  Scribe Publications Pty Ltd

  18–20 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria 3056, Australia

  50A Kingsway Place, Sans Walk, London, EC1R 0LU, United Kingdom

  First published as Identiteit by De Bezige Bij, Netherlands, 2012

  Published by Scribe 2014

  Text copyright © Paul Verhaeghe 2012

  English translation © Jane Hedley-Prôle 2014

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data

  Verhaeghe, Paul, author.

  What about Me?: the struggle for identity in a market-based society / Paul Verhaeghe; Jane Hedley-Prôle (translator).

  9781922072948 (e-book)

  1. Identity (Psychology). 2. Social change. 3. Individual differences–Social aspects. 4. Success–Psychological aspects. 5. Failure (Psychology).

  Other Authors/Contributors: Hedley-Prôle, Jane, translator.

  155.22

  scribepublications.com.au

  scribepublications.co.uk

  Contents

  Introduction

  1. Identity

  2. Ethics: from self-realisation to self-denial

  3. The Perfectible Individual

  4. The Essence of Identity

  Intermezzo: society and disorders

  5. Enron Society

  6. Identity: powerless perfectibility

  7. The New Disorders: rank and yank

  8. The Good Life

  Acknowledgements

  Bibliography

  Notes

  INTRODUCTION

  A middle-aged man is being lashed to a wooden pallet with duct tape by four other men. One of his attackers draws two zeros on his forehead with a marker pen, another presses his genitals against the man’s face, the third sits on him with bare buttocks, and the fourth takes pictures. The group are clearly enjoying themselves. Everything is captured on film, and the victim is even given a copy of the clip ‘to watch at home’.

  The scene of the action was an ordinary little factory in a small Belgian town. The man with the camera was a union representative. Quite a few people joined in; nobody tried to intervene. It later turned out that the bullying had been going on for years. In the days after the images were broadcast on television news, victims of similar incidents came forward with their stories. The first reported incident had happened in Wallonia, the French-speaking region of Belgium. But a week later it was the turn of Belgium’s Dutch-speaking community to be shocked when a case of bullying was reported in Flanders. A crane driver working for a steel concern had suffered regular humiliation at the hands of his foreman and the boss of his shift. They pulled his trousers down, scrawled obscenities on his buttocks, and tied him to a jeep and drove him around. Afterwards they posted the clips on YouTube. In the month that followed, bullying remained a hot media item. Various sources revealed surprisingly high figures: 10–15 per cent of employees in Beligium are bullied. This calls for an explanation, and apparently there are plenty of them.

  The first comes from the reactionaries. They claim that bullying is caused by the loss of social norms and values. In fact, that’s their explanation for just about any social problem — from the aggression faced by public-transport workers and the increase in child abuse, to ‘thieving asylum-seekers’ and the harassment of teachers. Things were better in the old days.

  A second group looks to the sphere of mental health for a cause. Violent offenders are ‘disturbed individuals’. A mother who abuses her baby is mentally ill, surely? It’s a reassuring thought. Experts testifying in criminal cases speak of ‘antisocial personality disorder’ (a recognised mental-health condition), and point to early signs of it in children, in the form of ‘oppositional defiant disorder’. There has been a sharp increase in both diagnoses in recent decades, and this is less reassuring.

  A third explanation takes the medical reasoning a step further: it’s a question of human nature, the hidden animal in all of us. The killers in Nazi concentration camps were just ordinary people, and psychological experiments show that almost anyone becomes a sadist under certain conditions.1 Homo homini lupus est — man is a wolf to his fellow man.

  Oddly enough, another explanation directly contradicts this view: people are essentially good, and it’s postmodern society that makes us bad. Take away all those violent computer games, and aggression will decrease sharply.

  Evil — let us not shrink from using this word — certainly isn’t alien to us. Hannah Arendt made this painfully clear in her report of the trial of Adolf Eichmann, in which she spoke of ‘the banality of evil’. The notion of human depravity ties in with Christian teachings about original sin, while a more modern version invokes ‘our selfish genes’.

  Both the view that we are inherently good and the view that we are inherently bad create the impression that there is an unchanging human nature waiting to manifest itself. That’s strange, given the quest for identity that is so ubiquitous in the Western world — the quest for ‘true’ norms and values. Apparently we no longer know who we are, and that is why we keep running to all kinds of experts, from psychologists to brain specialists and other soothsayers, to discover our true selves.

  This book stems from a different idea. There is no inherent identity: who someone is, whether good or bad, depends largely on their environment. If many people have nowadays lost their bearings, this says something about our environment. Apparently it has changed drastically, and therefore so have we. We don’t feel happy about the situation — that much is increasingly clear.

  Why should a psychoanalyst write about these issues? What About Me? is rooted in my clinical practice. Like many of my colleagues, I’m convinced that the problems for which people are seeking help these days are not just increasing, but also that their nature has changed.

  In an earlier book, I wrote about the end of psycho-therapy, investigating the link between mental disorders and social change. I have since become convinced that the impact of these changes is much more far-reaching than previously thought. The neo-liberal organisation of our society is determining how we relate to our bodies, our partners, our colleagues, and our children — in short, to our identities. And you can’t get much more disordered than that. I take my lead here from Sigmund Freud in his Civilisation and its Discontents. And, just like Freud, I will not shrink from adopting clear ethical stances.

  ONE

  IDENTITY

  In recent years, the discussion about identity has flared up nearly everywhere in Europe. The then princess Máxima, the wife of the Dutch crown prince, got into hot water when she made the claim, in 2007, that there was no such thing as a Dutch identity. The True Finns are the third-largest party in the Finnish parliament. Belgium is being torn apart by Flemish nationalism, and elsewhere in Europe nationalist political groups are gaining ground. There is a straightforward explanation: confrontation with different identities, in the form of immigrants and asylum-seeke
rs, and thus confrontation with different norms and values, creates uncertainty. Identity is not the abstract quality we vaguely assume it to be: we determine our identity by placing it alongside and, increasingly, contrasting it with other possible identities.

  Whereas identity used to be informed by predominantly local stereotypes (as in, Belgians versus the Dutch, or the English versus the Scots), current stereotypes have become globalised and socioeconomic: it’s now the indigenous population versus ethnic minorities, ‘our’ Judaeo-Christian culture versus ‘backward’ Islam, or the ‘hard-working middle classes’ versus ‘scroungers’.

  The various stereotypes have one thing in common: they serve to make us feel superior. We are more civilised, more intelligent, work harder, and so on. In the mid-20th century, the Germans looked down on the Untermenschen, the Japanese looked down on the Chinese, the French looked down on the Maghrebis — the list is endless. Such classifications are almost always linked to external characteristics (such as skin colour, physique, and clothing), which can then be deployed in a naïve debate on integration, culminating in proposals to ban headscarves (or in imposing a ‘head-rag tax’, as suggested by the populist Dutch politician Geert Wilders). Conversely, if the differences aren’t sufficiently visible, we fix that (by demanding the wearing of a Star of David, or the bearing of passports stating the holder’s race). The importance we attach to these external characteristics is a measure of our own uncertainty: remove them, and the distinctions become practically invisible. Identity is internal.

  This makes it a lot harder to study; we really want to see those differences. In the present age, when explanations for all human behaviour are sought in the interplay of genes and neurons, one might expect to look there for more light to be shed on the internal aspects of identity. As usual, we forget that this was tried a century ago, using craniometry — measuring skull circumference and capacity — to establish nice, clear distinctions between races and their identities. A taboo now lies on such research, a legacy of fascism, when Nazi scientists attempted to define ‘race’ along such lines. Whatever the case, the conviction that identity can be found somewhere inside us has proved to be extremely persistent.

  I take a completely different view. If we want to understand the nature of identity, we need to approach it by a different route; not in the timeless depths of our genes and brains, but in the flickering screen of the outside world, which acts as a constant mirror of identity. So the best thing is to start with the equally timeless question of who we really are.

  Who am I?

  Gnothi seauton, know thyself. This command was inscribed above the Temple of Apollo in Delphi, whose priestess, Pythia, was famous for her prophecies. Since the days when people flocked to consult the Delphic oracle, we have never stopped looking for our own inner core. We may have replaced the priestesses and soothsayers of ancient times with psychologists and, more recently, neuroscientists, but their answers, too, remain unsatisfying. This quest reveals a curious paradox: on the one hand, we cherish the conviction that our self always existed and will always exist; at the same time, we need to consult someone else, preferably an expert, to find out what ‘really’ makes us tick.

  That we have an eternal, unchanging self is extremely debatable; the fact that we turn to someone else in our search for it is, by contrast, extremely plausible. Our identity is not an immutable core hidden away in the depths of our being. It is, rather, a collection of ideas that the outside world has inscribed on our bodies. Identity is a construction, and that can be proved by something closely resembling a scientific experiment: adoption.* Take an Indian baby from the Rajasthan village of her birth, have her brought up in Amsterdam, and she will acquire the identity of an Amsterdammer. But if you entrust her instead to a couple from Paris, she will become a Parisienne. If, when she grows up, she goes in search of what she thinks of as her roots, she is going to be disillusioned: they simply don’t exist, and in the country of her birth she’s likely to find that she’s just as alien as any other woman from Amsterdam or Paris. More alien, in fact, because her appearance (skin colour, hair) suggests a bond with the local people that isn’t there. We must conclude from this that our psychological identity is shaped by our surroundings. If ‘I’ had grown up in a different culture with parents belonging to that culture, then ‘I’ would have been completely different.

  [* In an ideal scientific experiment, you change a single factor while keeping the rest of the setup as identical as possible. For instance, you take two cuttings of the same tomato plant and cultivate them using two different types of fertiliser. The difference in yield will then be attributable to the fertiliser, not the plant. In the case of adoption, one can compare people who have been taken from the culture of their birth in infancy and brought up elsewhere with peers who remained in the original cultural setting. Differences can then largely be attributed to the culture in question.]

  Identity has more to do with becoming than with being, and it’s a process that starts right from birth. All over the world it follows the same pattern, pointing to a genetic basis. It used to be called identification; since the discovery of mirror neurons, the preferred term is ‘mirroring’.* The earliest stages of this process are plain: a baby cries because of its wet nappy, and, as if by magic, Mummy appears. She makes comforting noises and asks, ‘Do you need a clean nappy then?’ She talks to the baby in a special, high-pitched voice, and exaggerates her facial expressions.** The importance of this simple interaction, repeated in a hundred different ways, is enormous. We learn what we are feeling and, more generally, who we are, by the other showing us. And we almost all develop an intimate conviction that someone else will come and solve our problems — because that’s what used to happen, right? Reaching maturity involves letting go of this conviction; yet when we’re exposed to acute pain, or danger, we still spontaneously call for Mummy. Not for nothing is separation anxiety, the fear that the other person will abandon us, our oldest fear, just as the oldest punishment is to be banished from the group, to be put in the corner with one’s back to the others — the didactic precursor of banishment.

  [* If you pull a face at a baby there’s a good chance that it will copy you. This is down to the recently discovered mirror neurons in our brains, which equip us to imitate the behaviour or, more broadly, the thinking of others. A baby is a sponge that absorbs all the information provided by its parents, and mirror neurons have a big role to play in this process.]

  [** ‘Marking’, the exaggerated way in which mothers, especially, communicate with babies using mirroring facial expressions, has a clear function: it allows babies to distinguish between what the mother is feeling herself, ‘I am not unhappy’ (no marking), and the feelings that she suspects her child has, ‘You are unhappy’ (marking).]

  Moving on from hunger and nappies, the messages from caregivers to children soon become much more complex and wide-ranging. We are told continually from our infancy what we feel, why we feel it, and how we should or shouldn’t deal with these feelings. We hear that we are good or naughty, beautiful or ugly, as stubborn as Granny, or as clever as Daddy. At the same time, we’re told what we can and can’t do with our bodies and those of others (‘Sit still for once!’, ‘Leave your little brother alone!’, ‘No, you can’t have a piercing!’). All this combines to define who we are, who we should be, and who we should not be. And the point of departure is still the body, around which the other (for example, parents and society) drapes these different layers of meaning.

  Described in this way, the construction of our identity sounds both simple and incredible. If that was all there was to it, we would all become what our environment dictated, and wouldn’t be able to influence this process at all. And that’s obviously not the case: right from the start, our identity is a balance of tensions; we are torn between the urge to merge with and the urge to distance ourselves from the other. That’s because, alongside and intermingled with the initial process of identification or mirroring, there is also a s
econd process at work: a striving for autonomy, and thus for separation from the other.

  In that first process, we assimilate the messages of the other, both the positive (‘You’re so patient!’) and the negative (‘You’re so slow!’), so that they become part of our identity. We become identical with them, in a very literal sense. We correspond with the message that comes from the other. Identity and identification have the same etymology, deriving from idem, Latin for ‘equal’.

  This contrasts with the second process — a desire to be separate, to be distant from the other, to resist and reject those messages. And this opposing urge is accompanied by a fear that the other is treading too close on our heels, perhaps even creeping under our skin and, as it were, taking us over. This fear of intrusion — meaning ‘to thrust in’ — is the inversion of the original separation anxiety, when we wanted to be as close to the other as possible.

  Separation and the corresponding quest for autonomy are as important for our identity as identification because they allow us to develop an individuality through opposition. This process starts quite early on. Every parent is familiar with the ‘terrible twos’, that phase when a toddler starts to be difficult and to show its own will (‘Don’t want!’). It’s no coincidence that this happens when he or she simultaneously discovers two new words: ‘no’ and ‘me’. This resistance flares up again during puberty, in all its hormonal intensity, this time accompanied by the illusion of independence (‘I’ll decide that myself!’). At this stage, it amounts to opting for alternative constructions of the self, and thus for different identification. Identity is always the temporary product of the interplay between merging and establishing a distance.

  The mirror that our environment holds up to us determines who we become. Of course, this process doesn’t just happen automatically; it can only work properly if the other views us with the eye of love. It’s no coincidence that the philosopher Hegel traced the origin of self-consciousness back to the gaze of the other. It is through that gaze, monitoring or loving, that we know that we exist. The word ‘respect’ is very important here: it literally means ‘the act of looking back at’, re-spicere. A child who does not grow up under a loving gaze and who experiences only indifference is cast adrift: it has no foundations on which to build. Only when a child is loved and supported can it grow up to become a stable individual. The Flemish and Dutch words for ‘to love’ reveal two significant aspects of this process. The former, graag zien (‘to see gladly’), shows the importance of the gaze; the latter, houden van (‘to hold’), the crucial nature of care.